Who Can You Love?

Was I feeling the results of the age-old caste system? Sonali’s parents were the domestic employees of my gracious hosts. Yet, what I was hearing was a warning not to blur the lines of the neatly ordered boundaries of ‘her place’, ‘their place’ and ‘my place’; everyone, neatly in their ‘place’. I was in shock! I’m attempting to process what I was taught was unconscionable. My hosts, I thought, were as Western as me. I’m so very new to this culture and yet I think this is my first exposure to the centuries-old caste system that until now, I’ve only ever read about. I had to read about it because no here was talking about except to say it "no longer exists." Really?

What I’m hearing is, “It’s not acceptable to love who you love.” I thought my nationality would prevent me, even protect me from having such a hurtful and personal experience. The closest I’ve even come to this is when I was dating an Africa American man in the 1980s. Whenever we were out in public we could pretty much guarantee to get subtle or contemptuous glances of disapproval. It’s evident that this learning curve is not a curve at all; it’s a 180-degree slant that requires a rope to keep me from freefalling into the abyss between the cultural divide.

As I waited for our sodas and fries, the last twenty-nine days of my life is flashing before my eyes. The memory of me sitting with my sister and mother in the café of the Long Beach Airport before my flight to New York too ignorant and innocent to know what I was in store for; the walk around Time Square on a drizzly night, starbursts glisten romantically off the Christmas decorations; a glimpse of myself in the train from London to White Cliffs of Dover and then walking past the house my grandparents once occupied; laying roses where their ashes are interned in a churchyard that’s could aptly be used for a period-film; the evening I stood in the pouring rain waiting at the bus stop across the street from my impromptu home in Battersea; the plane landing in New Delhi and the broken down plane that took me to Kathmandu; the dip in a Nepali river with a playful elephant named after the goddess who fulfills wishes. It’s all so vivid and yet distant. Was it really me who had those experiences or am I remembering a movie about a woman who lost her mind during her first year of menopause?

I have absolutely no idea what the future holds for me. This is both a curse and a blessing, as it gives me nothing to dwell on. It invites me to stay present, for this is the only moment that I can join forces with; this now is the only opportunity I have to choose who I am. I cannot know what anything will be ‘like’ for nothing is ‘like’ anything anymore. It is only in the present where I have a steady grounding. If I can just stay present and let go of wanting this time, this experience, or these people to be like any other I’ve know before, I’ll be alright; I’ll be guided, directed and protected by the simplicity of now.

Before me is my first ‘night train’ and those nineteen hours will give me plenty of time to pray and to create something that looks like a plan. But right now I’ll just regroup and chill. I can’t unleash my emotions on this unsuspecting Wimpy’s counter person or Nasir, who, could hoping to get some sort of mystery commodity from me.

I was given a receipt and picked a table far from any of the other patrons. The table was dirty, the walls were dirty, and the floor, I won’t even go there. Now I missed my mother’s standard of clean in addition to missing her lighthearted repartee. I sat across from Nasir on a sloped-formed bench, disconnected from the surroundings and looked straight into Nasir’s eyes and said to him, “Okay Nasir, who are you really and what do you want from me?” He stammered a bit and then began to tell me his true intention. It was as if the soda was laced with truth serum. In a nutshell, according to this credible source, the whole of India is on commission. Nasir gets a percentage of what I buy from the pashmina dealer, he gets a portion of whatever my travel costs came to had I arranged trips or tours from a number of travel agents he is ‘in relationship’ with, and he’ll return to collect his commission on my cell phone purchase because he brought me; a customer that they would otherwise not had.

I sat with this for a while and then asked, “What’s wrong with this? It occurs for me to be an honest way to make a living as you help Westerners maneuver around a society and culture that can take a lifetime to understand?” Nasir explained to be a professional “Guide” he must fill out an application and pay the local government, and possibly the police, what could be an excessive fee. Most of the very young men, like him, don’t have nearly the amount of rupees to pay the costly fee, so they operate unofficially without the necessary documentation and identification card, hoping to avoid being discovered by police, which would surely take him to jail, possibly beat him severely and release him only after he paid a hefty fine that would only make it as far as the pocket of his captor. Unofficial guides like Nasir only deal with small time shops like the mobile phone dealer he took me to. Most of the retailers Nasir and his counterparts have ‘arrangements’ with are small and hard to locate with limited inventory, which most foreigners would not normally patronize.

So now I’ve got it, I can begin to understand what Nasir is up to. I can’t fault him because if I did I would have to fault myself for so much. These two beautiful human being found each other in this complicated world and is simply trying to work out this life we’ve both been given.

I looked at my watch and it’s 4:30 and I tell Nasir that I want to go now to be early for this long train journey ahead of me. Without a fuss he agrees. We stop by the travel shop to collect my luggage and he easily flags down a rickshaw. On the way to the New Delhi train station Nasir asks, “Trassee, are you angry with me? Do you not like me now?” I start to respond but he interrupts, “Trassee, I want you to be my friend. It’s okay, yes?” he asks while looking at me with his big brown puppy dog eyes. “Yes Nasir, we are friends. I appreciate your honesty and I have no problem with what you do. You must earn a living somehow.”

We arrived at the station and one of his friends which he called 'uncle,' but no relation, came from a large group of men standing on a concrete rise at the entrance of the station. It reminded me of the group of day-workers you can find at parking lot entrance of a Southern California Home Depot in the morning. These men also want to make money, but they must do so by deflecting foreigners from the train station ticket agent to a travel agency for a commission. Nasir told his friend nicely to back-off. I already got a ticket online before leaving Chandigarh. The three of us walked into the station. My train number wasn't displayed on the kiosk as yet, so I had no idea what platform I need to go to board my train. So we stood waiting at a stand that makes fresh squeezed orange juice with an old bulky hand-grinder. Nasir's uncle offered me a glass that was already poured so I choose to accept it without the slightest glance at the rarely-cleaned-machine that produced it. We took some pictures and I my excitement began to turn to concern since the train was due to leave in less than 30 minutes and still my train number hasn't shown up on the board. “Trassee, show me your ticket.” Nasir demanded nicely. I removed my ticket from my fanny pack and he unfolded it and watched them snatch the ticket back and forth examining it. I listened, not able to understand because they spoke in Hindi. Yet concern sounds the same in any language.

This is when I noticed Nasir’s uncle had two thumbs on his right hand! One that looked like every other thumb and a smaller thumb growing from it. It even hand a nail that I assumed would need clipping and filing. The six digits mesmerized me when Nasir said calmly, “Trassee, your train leaves from Old Delhi station and we are at New Delhi station.” I yelled out, “WHAT?”

Looking for a CONSTANT

Nasir told the rickshaw driver to make a series of turns down some narrow thoroughfares that certainly couldn’t be called streets. I thought about what his address might look like and how impossible it would have been for me to find it. I also knew I would never find my way out of this maze without a guide. I consulted my intuition to see if it was okay to enter and since I didn’t have any negative readings I got out of the three-wheeled sardine-can that held the three of us and with my luggage. Nasir paid our dark-skin scruffy driver and took my luggage up a flight of tight and steep stairs that made more than three turns. “How does anyone get furniture up these stairs?” I wondered. We stepped through a narrow doorway that put us all in a three-by-four, what I’d call an entryway. The luggage went ‘thud’ and the guys had their shoes off within seconds, me, well I had to unlace while standing. “Thankfully I had enough sense to prepare my body for this adventure. I relied partly on core strength and partly the support of a bit of wall that framed the makeshift patio. The opening that made this ‘room’ a veranda was filled with a symmetrical heavy fencing, which I assume was there to keep out the monkey troops that roam most cities in India.

The guys disappeared into, what I call an apartment, leaving me on the veranda. At that moment I experienced the difference between Western and Eastern chivalry. I use to love it when men, even male family members, would wait for me. Once my shoes were off I moved into, what one with a Western upbringing might call the ‘front room’. It occurs to me, in this early stage of my journey that I’ve become grounded by the familiarities of my life. Now I’m looking--no searching for a constant, something that is the same in both worlds, but I’m becoming unfastened. I realize that I’m more comfortable when an object or space carries the familiar tag or nomenclature that’s embedded in my memory. With no other plan, and frankly an uncertainty of how to deal with such a new and strange dilemma, I’ll keep tagging things, spaces and experiences to something similar, but I know I’ll have to come up with a more dependable strategy soon.

As I surveyed the small ten by eight foot room I attempted to suppress my surprised expression at the sparseness of the space. There was only a thin rug covering the stone floor and a mattress in the corner, also thin, made for two tiny people with no bed linen and a small color TV perched on smaller table. The only decoration is a poster taped to the wall advertising travel to Kashmir. I realized, I was right, no furniture because nothing could fit up those stairs. I would later come to learn that this is simply how many Indian families live.

Nasir’s mother came to greet me with some prodding from Nasir. We didn’t shake hands, as hers were wet from preparing food I assumed; yet it’s my culture that shakes hands when we meet someone new. I said, “Namaste” but later learned I should have said "Assalaamu 'alaykum" since they are Muslim. I forgot her name almost as soon as it was spoken, because, If I don’t write names down with both the correct and phonetic spelling they fall to either side of my enormous cultural learning curve. She’s modest and doesn’t make eye contact and has pulled her colorful print saree up over her long jet-black hair that is pulled back in a thick braid. She’s younger than me, but I only know this because Nasir told me that he’s twenty-five and she had him when she was quite young. She looks so much older than me as the years of her life haven’t been as gentle to her as mine have been to me. She’s shy, average height with a Buddha-like roundness with very dark skin. Her dark eyes held a friendly jealously, free from hatred or anger. At that moment, I knew with certainty that my prayers tonight would be filled with gratitude for a life of irrefutable choices and opportunities.

I was invited to sit, as the two young men sat cross-legged (lotus) on the thin rug. But nature was calling. I wondered if I should ask to use the restroom or hold it. I did a quick inventory of my blatted and knew I couldn’t hold it so I said quietly to Nasir, “I need to go to the rest…I mean toilet.” knowing that the English spoken here comes from many years of British rule, so I better say ‘toilet’ before this American wets herself. His mother, who speaks no English motioned to the facilities, which in my opinion was the real meaning of a ‘water closet’ because it was wet from ceiling to floor. I had to remove my socks and roll up my jeans and slip a large pair of shower shoes on, which by the looks of them are used by everyone in the family and quite possibly the neighbors too. The pennies were beginning to drop. I remembered the bathroom in my hotel room, which had toilet, sink and shower all together, and no toilet paper holder. I wondered, “Where’s the shower stall?” This room was so strange that I didn’t sleep under the blanket, because I knew the it had been used by lots of guests and I wasn’t adding my name to that list. I didn’t shower, because I remained perplexed as to why there was not a separate shower stall, which seemed like a good excuse to keep my clothes on, in a hotel that was managed and occupied by only men, even while in my own room. I thought I watched enough movies, travel videos and documentaries on India to prepare for the cultural differences. I realized that it wouldn’t matter how many I watched, nothing would have prepared me for the actual experience of being here. I was standing in a brick three-by-three room in one inch of water, digging deep in my pockets hoping to find some tissue, which just wasn’t there. I ‘shook off’ as if I had male parts and let my underwear and my jeans absorb the rest.

Nasir, motioned for me to sit on the small thin mattress with him. He had already opened his laptop and his pictures of Kasmir. I have rarely seen images as beautiful as these, except on the Nature Channel. There were many young 20-something blond fair-skinned Westerners in the photos, but Nasir wasn’t in any of them. I became even more suspicion. After all, I was still sorting the Nasir puzzle pieces out and I had barely started to turn over the straight edged pieces to create the border of who he might be and what motivates him.

Nasir’s younger sister came from a room in the rear of the apartment to greet me, followed by a very small woman, also in a saree, less than four feet tall, who shyly emerged from behind his slender teenage sister. Once the saree slipped off her head and exposed her face I could see that she too is a mature woman yet someone forgot to tell her body this fact. It was obvious by their calm demeanor that they have meet several Westerners before, even in this very same apartment. I’m thinking that his home must serve as Nasir’s net as he fishes fervently for a visa to the United States.

The two ladies left and reemerged with a plastic tablecloth to cover the carpet and to create our dining area. The sister just sat across and observed me while not so politely staring. The food, in the same pots it was cooked in, was placed in the center of the ‘table’. We were all given stainless steel bowl-type plates. The young men dug in without saying so much as ‘Grace’ and piled their plates high with rice, watery yellow dal and curry-colored mixed vegetables. All the food was piping hot so I felt it should be safe, because it would be a grave insult to not eat. I said a quick prayer of thanksgiving and protection while the tiny woman piled food on my plate. I smiled and put my hand up hoping I was making the international symbol for, “That’s plenty, thank you!” I knew I wasn’t going to eat a lot since I was cautioned to do what I could to not have a bowel movement on the train, since the bathrooms were quite disgusting and a place that no one wants to spend that much time.

Nasir and his friend were eating as if it was their last meal and the girls were yet to start. I was witnessing a micro-male-dominance in this little apartment of two rooms and toilet that housed six people, sometimes more when relatives come to visit. I was grateful that his mother gave me a spoon to eat with, while the guys made eating with their hands a cultural art form. The food was too hot to put in my mouth, which causes me to be even more amazed to learn that Nasir’s mouth can not only stretch to fit the best part of his fist, but is also lined with asbestos.

I mixed and moved the food around the plate to cool it and I only ate half of the serving I was given. I felt bad to leave food on my plate, especially because this is one of the countries my mother would reference when trying to persuade me to eat all my food when I was a child. As soon as Nasir was convinced I was done he gave my plate to his mother who scraped the uneaten food into one of the pots. “Good,” I thought, “it won’t go the waste.”

I think we all learn exit clues in school, at least I did. When I was a teaching assistant in college I remember how these clues so efficiently took the place of clock-watching. Here was my opportunity to use this skill in India. I was a bit anxious thinking about all I wanted to accomplish before boarding the first night that would take me to even more unfamiliar place. I rose to my feet and said, “Thank you for everything.” to everyone in the small room. Nasir looked up at me confused. But he got it! He realized that I was not staying a few days or even one more day in Delhi. I was ready to go and my body language surely communicated that I was not open to any discussion about staying. I took two steps and went into the little entryway to put my shoes on.

I sat down on a stackable hard-plastic green armchair to lace my shoes. Since I arrived in Southeast Asia, I’ve been making mental notes of those things that I recognize from my world and the chair I’m sitting gets added to the list. Many times before coming to India, I sat in this type of molded chairs. My left-brain began to access all the memories of Forth of July celebrations, weddings and garden parties of which the hosts used these chairs. I want to be present for every moment but right now my brain is running a picture show. At some level of my consciousness is attempting to locate constants, those connections that will help me keep my wits about me as I travel this exotic land and drastically different culture.

Nasir had my Osprey in his hands and I opened the door to a man in his late eighties who’s as tall as me. He wore a Western jacket over traditional men’s long tunic and cotton pajama-type trousers. He has a peaceful dark face that is missing Nasir’s unspoken expression of wanting. This is Nasir’s great grandfather coming in as I’m going out. He’s charming; this is obviously where Nasir getting his training. He spoke some English leftover from working with the British for the many years when they ruled this nation. I fantasized that this gentleman might have met my grandfather when he was here decades ago. Might this man be one of the reasons my British grandfather loved India so much? My grandfather meet Lawrence of Arabia in this o’ so small world, isn’t it also possible that he meet Nasir’s great grandfather? I laughed at myself for being so anxious to leave just moments ago and now I’m wishing I had more time to stay and hear his stories of the India my grandfather came to love. I said my ‘goodbyes’ and went down the steep narrow stairs and walked out to a main road with Nasir. He flagged down a touk-touk, which isn’t hard when you have a Westerner with you.

Nasir’s friend went in another direction as we made our way to Connaught Place to buy a prepaid cell phone. Nasir must have had the rickshaw driver stop on the far side of the outer circle of this very large shopping center, because we walked and walked. We stopped at Nasir’s ‘friend’s travel office’ and dropped off my large bag. I laughingly thought to myself, ‘how convenient that we need to come back here to get my bags.’ The travel agent was trying to sell me a package to Kashmir as we walked away. “When you come back, I show you pictures of where you must go!” he yelled as we disappeared around the corner of the building. We passed several modern and clean mobile phone stores, named Airtel, Aircel, Tata Communications and Reliance without even a glance. I asked Nasir, “Why don’t we go into anyone of these stores?” “No Trassee,” he responded without turning around. “Those not where we go.” He kept walking with me trailing behind him with a loaded pack on my back. We came to a small dingy shop with dirty yellow walls, the size of a long and very narrow hallway. We stepped in and I had to remove my backpack to maneuver enough space to move from left to right. I had made a copy of my passport and visa beforehand and the only thing left to do is quickly complete the application. Once all the paperwork was stabled together the storeowner produced a Nokia box obviously containing a new cell phone. He punched a Subscriber Identity Module (SIM) out of a heavy piece of plastic the size of a credit card, opened the back of the phone, slipped the SIM card in the vacant slot, replaced the battery, turned it on and handed it to Nasir. I gave him the equivalent of $35 in rupees and we walked out of the dirty store joining the rest of the hurried shoppers. I wondered, “Did I just get a legitimate cell phone from a not-so-legit shopkeeper?” But my new cell phone and I had yet to make contact. My mental breadcrumbs were telling me we were on the way back to the travel agent’s shop, because we are stepping over the same open holes dug for the on-going construction, according to Nasir. But it looked to me like the workers had walked of the job months ago with no intention of returning because the holes are beginning to fill with trash. So much trash that I thought it would take months to fill with that much trash. What I’m about to learn, with great disappointment, is that the streets of India also serve a trash receptacles.

Nasir is moving fast with a clear intention to insure I make my train, but I’m missing something. “Nasir, can I have my phone please?” I said as a statement more than a question. He laughed and finished programming something into it and handed it to me. “What’s my phone number? How much talk time do I have? How do I put more time on it?” I flooded him with American questions about my new Indian cell phone. “You have 150 rupees to make calls. I saved your SIM number in your contacts.” He has obviously done this drill before.

I wanted to stop for a few minutes and collect myself. So much has happened in one day and it’s only 3:00 in the afternoon. I’m starting to forget if I got off the train from Chandijarh this morning or yesterday morning. No, it was this morning. We walked by a Wimpy’s, a fast food burger place from the United Kingdom, and I walked in without saying anything to my young friend. Nasir turned and followed me in. “Trassee, what are you doing?” he asked. “Nasir, my mother and I stop in a fast food place for a soda and fries in the middle of a long day of shopping or running errands to restore some energy.” I explained. I realized immediately that he had no clue what I had just rambled in English too fast for him to understand, but he acted like he was completely up to speed. I was glad because I was in no mood to explain. I ordered a couple of sodas and an order of fries as I held back the tears. I am missing my mom so much now that I have brought her so vividly into this present moment.

These are the times when I think I am completely out of my mind. What am I doing here? I know even less about his country than I thought I did and I have no plan. I can here my mother warning me, “Tracy, you can’t just go off half cocked! You need a plan!” I think my dear mother was made more confident about me coming to India because I have a home base, somewhere to call ‘home’ and return to, somewhere I can regroup in the safety of a family who welcomes me. But what she’ll learn soon enough, is that I have no intention to make that place my ‘home base.’ The only thing that would draw me back is the loving energy of Sonali and the balance of my belongings, stored ever so temporarily in a navy blue laundry bag that I was given after using the French dry cleaning and laundry pick up and delivery services when I was a yuppie in San Francisco. More in a tall paper shopping bag and the thin cloth-zipper bag that once held a new hand-woven rug I bought in Istanbul. The rug is history but the container, as it turns out, is much more useful for this particular journey. Returning at the end of the day was such loving experience. As I passed the front of the house and turn the corner of the street, where the ‘servants’ entrance’ was, Sonali would be there waiting for me. She’d see me, light up with a smile and run into my arms. We walk the fifteen feet or so into the house and she would gift me a piece of candy. We would talk as much as our limited knowledge of each other’s languages would allow. She’d show me her school work and I would encourage her to go study. She’s says good night with “Tomorrow, see you. Bye, bye.”

I wonder now, if I’m just so needy that I’m fooling myself that she was genuinely pleased to see me return? Was it something about me that inspired her to run into my arms and hug me, with what I know was authentic affection? What confuses me is the memory of being admonished by my gracious hostess, when she discovered that Sonali and I had become friends and that we had been spending time together. “Tracy, where will this relationship go?” she interrogated in such a soft and gentle tone. She was very convincing, so much so that for a minute I too began to wonder where a friendship between an American woman in her 50s and a 10 years old Indian girl could go? But then something stung in my mind, like a brain-freeze from eating ice cream too fast. My consciousness was being pricked to consider if there was a price to pay for loving someone. Would this little girl have to pay a price for loving me, or at the very least being affectionate to me? Hell no! The pain we experience in life isn't from receiving love, even if it's brief, but from it being withheld! Where will it 'go'? Where all expressed love goes; in the ether! I think it's what's present when we feel peaceful or like smiling for no reason.